


Empty Space

by marshmallons (byebyebyeleth)



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Blindness, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prideshipping, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 21:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17926850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byebyebyeleth/pseuds/marshmallons
Summary: Kaiba reflects on the beginning of his relationship with Atem— and how they ended up exactly where they are, after the accident that stole Kaiba's vision.[Prideshipping, blind AU, nsfw oneshot, complete.]





	Empty Space

**Author's Note:**

> For nsfwnoses. Thank you for your inspiring AUs.

Seto maps out Atem’s face in the dark. 

The darkness that blankets him is twofold— he is sure that the lights are off in the bedroom, because he can’t hear the faint, electric hum of the lamp on the bedside table, and he’s blind.

The satin bedsheets rustle when Atem shifts to face him fully. The blankets are warm from their shared body heat, and Seto shivers when they fall away from his naked torso, exposing him to the cool atmosphere in their bedroom. 

Atem replaces the warm embrace of the blanket, and Seto relaxes into the strong arm that loops around his middle, exhaling slowly as Atem nestles closer and takes his hand, the one not delicately tracing over each of his features. 

Atem kisses his fingers when they come to his lips, following the outline of his cupid’s bow and the full swell of his lower lip, and Seto’s heart hammers in his chest when he feels Atem’s mouth spread into a smile. 

“What are you doing?” Atem whispers, breaking the stretch of silence between them. His lips tickle the sensitive pads of Seto’s fingers as they move, shaping the words. He kisses his fingertips again, twice now. 

“Touching you. I thought that was obvious.” 

A warning squeeze at his waist. Seto’s face breaks into a smile, and he desperately wishes he could see Atem’s expression just then, just once. 

“Has my face changed since the last time you touched it?”

“Hmm.” Seto tests the rounded curve of his jaw with his thumb. “Yes. Your stubble is coming in.”

He has only the slightest warning— Atem’s huff of laughter, the leg that slips in between his own, the shift in weight on the mattress, just before Atem presses his stubbled face into the crook of his neck, kissing the column of his throat with such tenderness that it makes Seto’s heart ache.

* * *

It had started with an accident. 

It was a freak mishap, according to the later accident reports. The headgear for the immersive virtual reality game was in the early stage of test runs before release to the general public. The light adapters didn’t respond to the control panel; a fuse sparked, the holographic screening material short-circuited, and Seto had been overexposed to dangerously high levels of lumens.

He had screamed when the light became agonizingly bright in the testing lab. He had screamed even louder when he opened his eyes in the resident physician’s office and was surrounded by nothing but darkness. .

 _Better one of ours than someone in the public,_ the executive board had said. That would have _really_ tanked their ratings and popularity in the competitive gaming industry.

Seto had been sent off with a handsome retirement plan, references to the best counselors in the area, and coverage for anything that he might need in his ‘new condition.’

Nothing could have prepared him for the challenge of arriving to a home that felt as alien to him as the surface of the moon. He walked directly into the same table he was so used to throwing his keys onto without so much as a second thought; he tripped on the rug that had been there ever since he first moved into the luxury apartment. 

Mokuba came home from school to find him sitting eerily quiet on the kitchen floor. 

When Seto finally answered his frightened questions, he didn’t need his eyesight to know that Mokuba began to cry.

* * *

It was a full month after the accident when Seto finally acknowledged that he needed a service dog. 

Mokuba was still a child, and Seto was the one who needed to take care of him, certainly not the other way around. His pride stung every time he needed Mokuba’s help to find his way to the car or to locate something in the apartment, and there was only so much responsibility he could relay to Isono, his longtime personal assistant.

It was enough that he helped prepare meals for the younger Kaiba and acted in the role of a chauffeur and butler and anything else that either Kaiba sibling might need— Seto certainly didn’t want to have to entrust himself to Isono’s care twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, even if Isono provided his services without complaint. 

Seto valued his independence— and a service animal could provide that, without supplying judgment, or even worse, pity.

It was with reluctance that he called a local service dog training agency and scheduled an consultation with a personal trainer named Atem.

On the day of the consultation, Seto took extra care in his appearance. 

If he looked put together and composed, there was no way that this _Atem_ would know he was struggling to adapt to his new circumstances, he rationalized, as he picked out one of the outfits hanging in his closet. Isono had organized them into groups by color for ease, and Seto counted by the hanger— it was the fourth suit from the left, which meant, according to the system he had devised, that it was one of the many navy suits in his repertoire. 

The texture beneath his fingertips was soft, indicating a cashmere sweater —it was the light gray one, Seto thought, recognizing the pattern of the knit weave— and the accompanying blazer was light and stiff, well-tailored to fit his figure. 

He couldn’t examine his appearance in a mirror; he relied on muscle memory and touch to fix the collar of his shirt, fit the cufflinks into place, slide his belt into the loops of his waistband. 

Small victories were pathetic victories, he had once thought. Now there was a certain touch of pride and satisfaction when he slipped on his shoes by the door— he had performed the most menial of tasks, dressing himself, without relying on the help of anyone else.

Seto could almost bring himself to feel the way that he had before the accident, composed and self-sufficient. He continued to feel that way as Isono drove him to the designated meeting area, a small cafe on the outskirts of the Manhattan, and when he greeted Atem for the first time— until he reached for a sip of his espresso, misjudged the distance to the table, and spilled coffee into his lap.

Seto’s face burned hotter than the tops of his scalded thighs. He could hear the scrape of the chair’s metal legs on the floor and the _clink!_ of the metal spoon dropping onto the porcelain plate when Atem sprang up from his seat.

He expected pity, he knew in the pit of his stomach that he would be met with sickeningly concerned appraisals and false reassurances, and it made the rage burn hot on his face.

“I’m fine!” he hissed, humiliated. “Sit down!”

Atem pressed napkins into Seto’s tightly-clenched hands without saying a single word. 

Seto squeezed them in his fist and blotted at his jeans, relieved that the navy trousers were dark enough to conceal any stain. The tender skin beneath his clothing ached under the pressure, but he ignored it and turned his attention back to Atem with only the faintest hint of a grimace. 

“Are you alright, Mr. Kaiba?” 

Atem’s tone was cautious. His voice was deep, it rumbled with a low timber, 

“What kind of fucking question is that?” 

“Excuse me?”

“I lost my vision and I need a dog in order to leave my own damned house without a babysitter. Why don’t you tell me if _you’d_ be fine?” 

Seto reigned in the burst of anger and played it off with a sardonic smile. “Unless you meant the spill? In which case I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Mutou.”

“Well, Mr. Kaiba…” 

Seto couldn’t see Atem’s face, but his tone was light, almost amused. 

“I certainly have to wonder if you would be a good match for our training service. You meet the disability requirements, of course, but caring and cooperating with a service dog is a great responsibility. It requires mutual trust and companionship.” 

The clink of a spoon on porcelain. Atem was stirring sugar into his drink and admonishing him as casually as if they were discussing the weather. 

“You are resentful toward the recent… _developments_ in your life and I’m not sure your happiness would change simply by acquiring a service dog.”

Seto braced his elbows onto the table and leaned in, planting his chin atop his steepled fingers. “I’m not looking for happiness, Mr. Mutou. I’m looking for the independence I lost when untested virtual tech malfunctioned and stole my eyesight.”

“I see. Nevertheless, I need you to guarantee that you will care appropriately and accept responsibility for the animal that will be entrusted to you, should we accept you into our program, Mr. Kaiba.”

“I’m not a sadist, Mr. Mutou. Of course I’ll take care of the… _dog._ ” 

He couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose. Atem’s responding laugh was rich and warm.

“I’ll just have to see to that myself, Mr. Kaiba.”

* * *

Atem did see to it himself. 

It started with an apartment inspection. Seto’s penthouse met the requirements for space— but very little else. Atem would click his tongue in disapproval every so often; Seto took to counting, and he was already at four within the last six minutes. 

First it was the rug, which was a slipping hazard, then there was the laptop cable someone had left on the floor, and the—

“The steps between the kitchen and the living room are dangerous, Mr. Kaiba.” 

“I’ve lived in this penthouse for half a decade. I know that the steps are there. They’re harmless.”

“Accidents ha—”

Almost immediately, Seto miscalculated his next step and pitched forward. He would have crash-landed onto the ground— if Atem hadn’t reacted immediately and reached for his arm, bracing him and holding him steady.

The grip on his bicep was firm, and without thinking, Seto placed his hand over Atem’s, automatically registering a broad palm and thick, nimble fingers, warm in contrast to his own.

Atem cleared his throat and recovered before he did. “We can train the dog to respond to emergencies, in case you were to be hurt this way.”

“This has never happened before!” 

Atem laughed. His fingers twitched on Seto’s bicep. 

Seto realized a second too late that he was still holding Atem’s hand. 

He drew his hand back to his side discreetly and tucked it into the pocket of his trousers. Atem’s hand lingered on his bicep just a second longer, but Seto’s arm remained warm where Atem’s fingers had left their mark long after he released him. 

“It gives me peace of mind to know that I’ll be with you for a few months, in the event of another accident.”

Seto could hear the smile in his voice. 

Strangely, he knew that with Atem around, there would be no such thing. 

Atem called later that evening to congratulate him— _Congratulations, Mr. Kaiba. We’ve been assigned a dog to work with._

Seto had the beginnings of a mild crisis when it finally sunk in that he was _really_ going to take care of a dog. 

_Well, that’s the entire point of this program_ , he thought sourly. _It’s going to take as much care of me as I have to take care of it._

A dog. A companion for life, or whatever bullshit animal-loving harpies loved to tout. Seto’s mood darkened the more that he thought about the situation. It was a reminder that his circumstances would remain so for the rest of his life-- it didn’t have a solution. 

Atem knocked on his door an hour later. 

“It would be best if we introduced her to her new home immediately,” Atem explained as he walked through the door. A low whine from way below, someplace near the floor, erupted in the air between them. 

Seto tensed. “Is that the dog?”

“Yes. Her name is Kisara. She’s a Siberian husky.” 

Two paws pressed against Seto’s knee. He narrowly resisted the impulse to nudge her away with his foot. Atem was surely observing him like a hawk. 

He discreetly walked away, taking measured steps into the living room and stopping beside the sofa. Atem’s feet echoed on the polished marble floors and he heard the distinct click and scratch of small nails on the tile. 

Seto’s breathing stuttered. There was a dog in his penthouse. 

“Would you like to become acquainted with her?”

“What do I do?”

“Well, if you could sit closer to the floor…”

Seto knelt reluctantly. The apprehension must have been written clearly across his face, because Atem paused and tentatively asked,

“Are you afraid of dogs, Mr. Kaiba?”

“Of course not. Why would I sign up for this program if I was afraid of dogs?”

“Good. There’s no reason to be afraid, she’s quite young and bred to have a good temperament,” Atem said smoothly, ignoring his sharp tongue. “I’m going to let her off the leash now.”

A second passed, then a cold, wet nose pressed into Seto’s cheek without warning. Kisara stood on her hind legs and leaned onto his shoulder, a solid, comfortable weight. She managed to lick his cheek before Seto cringed and carefully pushed her aside. 

“What brand did you say she is?”

Atem laughed. Seto wasn’t sure why.

“She’s a Siberian husky.”

“Huskies...the white dogs with the blue eyes.” 

“Yes, that’s right.”

Seto buried his fingers to the knuckle into her soft, dense fur. Unlike most dogs, Kisara didn’t stink or assault his sensitive nose— Atem must have bathed her before bringing her over, he thought appreciatively. A small smile touched at the corners of his lips, until Kisara lapped at the inside of his wrist with her rough tongue. 

He grimaced and drew his hand back.

“Can you train her to...not do that?” he asked awkwardly, and Atem coughed, likely to conceal a laugh.

“She’s still a puppy, Mr. Kaiba. I’m afraid her behavior toward you will include that, at least in the beginning.”

Seto turned his palm upward, and as expected, Kisara licked at the pads of his fingers. 

“Hmm. Disgusting.” 

But despite his mild revulsion, he found himself patting the top of her broad head, taking care to avoid her mouth. 

“Are you sure you still want a service dog, Mr. Kaiba?”

After a long moment, Seto exhaled slowly and nodded. The warmth of Kisara’s fur was strangely comforting beneath his hand. 

“Yes.”

* * *

They alternated between public and private training sessions. 

_There are many distractions in a city as wide and bustling as NYC,_ Atem had explained patiently as he drove Seto and Kisara into Midtown for tea. _She needs to become accustomed to working in a public setting without distractions._

The teahouse was noisy and crowded, ringing with the clamor of loud conversations and boisterous laughter.

_—Did you see what she was wearing?_

_—and then he told her—_

_—The merger was a success!_

_—What a bitch!_

The scent of floral teas perfumed the room and as they walked past individuals tables to one that Atem had reserved in advance, Seto caught the different enticing scents wafting through the air— bergamot, fruity rooibos, delicate, floral jasmine. He occasionally caught other fragrances as well; cigarette smoke that lingered on clothing, expensive French perfume, the alcoholic bite of an afternoon draught. 

It was indeed all very distracting, he thought. There was a lot to take in, and it resulted in a mild headache beginning to pound at his temples.

 _Then_ he understood the purpose of meeting in a distracting environment for Kisara’s training, and he found himself respecting Atem just a little more— there was a certain skill to this kind of work. He was beginning to trust that he was in good hands. 

“Tell me a bit more about your life, Mr. Kaiba.”

Seto nearly didn’t catch the low murmur of Atem’s voice. His voice was warm, molten; it was easy to lose in the din of the room. He refocused and drew closer to the table, leaning over it, entirely unaware that the round tables were very small and he was only a few inches from Atem’s face.

“What do you want to know?”

“Do you live with anyone else? A sibling, a parent, a spouse...anyone who would also be in contact with Kisara?”

“I have a younger brother. And there’s also Isono. He’s usually around.”

“Is Isono also family?”

“No.”

“Oh—”

“He’s my personal assistant,” Seto finished. 

The waitress arrived to their table and presented a pot of tea. Seto could smell the sweet, rich notes of the citrusy rooibos tea; it made his mouth water, and for what felt like the first time since the accident, the tension slipped away from his shoulders. There was the quiet sound of the porcelain teacup clinking against the metal spoon, then the aroma of the tea became stronger. 

“I’m going to touch your hand,” Atem warned, just before his warm fingers closed around Seto’s palm and guided his hand to the teacup. “Please don’t spill this time.”

Before he could bristle, Atem continued in a low murmur, “I know I don’t have to tell you. I just don’t want you to hurt yourself. _And_ this tea _is_ expensive, and it would taste far better inside the cup than on your clothing.” 

Seto didn’t spill a single drop.

* * *

The months passed and Seto grew to trust Atem slowly. 

There was no way around it; he saw Atem every week, without fail, and found himself enjoying his presence every time that they were together. Atem put him at ease and was strangely patient; even on the bad days, when Seto was uncooperative and irritable, he didn’t give in to his temper— and as time went on, the bad days became fewer in number, until there were nearly none at all. 

Conversation flowed easily between them, so full of patter and old jokes, mostly Atem’s, that it was practically another language. 

Atem walked him home. It was late in the evening, a balmy, pleasant summer night, and they walked down a quiet, residential area in the Upper East Side. Seto held Kisara’s leash and allowed her to guide him, learning to more closely follow her cues than Atem’s. 

It was an exercise in trust, which was always difficult. But Kisara had learned the control commands with impressive speed, according to Atem, and he had nothing to fear. She paused at every curb, guided Seto across streets, all with the safety net of Atem’s sharp eyes, in the rare event that Kisara should make a mistake.

Every so often, whenever Seto hesitated or lingered just a second too long by a crosswalk, Atem’s hand drifted toward the small of Seto’s back. 

It was the lightest touch, so faint, Seto wasn’t sure if he was imagining it. But every time he hesitated, unsure of his footing on the uneven pavement, there was that gentle touch, warm and reassuring. 

Seto paused more frequently. 

If Atem noticed what he was doing, he didn’t make a mention of it— he obliged Seto with the occasional touch, until they reached Seto’s front door. Atem took Kisara’s leash from his hands and praised her, feeding her treats and murmuring in a language Seto didn’t recognize, while he opened the door and stepped inside. 

“This was a good session,” Atem said warmly. “I’m pleased with the progress Kisara’s made.”

“Yeah. You’re...you’re a pretty decent trainer.”

“Thank you. I’ve enjoyed working with you, Kaiba.”

Seto felt Kisara brush against his leg as she slipped inside the apartment. He lingered by the door, reluctant to say goodbye. His fingers twitched against the door handle; the polished silver was cool beneath his grip, but it grew warm as his palm grew damp. His other hand, buried deep in his pocket, tightened into a fist, clenching and unclenching. 

“Kaiba?”

“Join me for dinner?”

It was less a question than it was a demand. 

Something like fear of rejection burned in the pit of his stomach. He had never made such a request before— the words had just come tumbling out of him before he'd considered them, as usual, his mouth rushing ahead of his mind.

“Thank you,” Atem agreed, without question. “I would love to.”

“Now would be a good time to confess that Isono does all the cooking,” he said stiffly, feeling the heat rise to his face as he welcomed Atem inside. “Naturally, he buys and stocks everything as well.”

“Did you cook before the accident?”

“...No.”

“In other words, you don’t know how to cook and you don’t know what you have to cook with.”

Seto could hear the smug, shit-eating smirk in his voice. He fumed.

“Whatever.”

Seto had, for all intents and purposes, a fully functional modern kitchen. He knew that his appliances were state-of-the-art equipment, brand new and, in some instances, not even out of the original packaging; there was an electric stove and an oven and a huge fridge, and various other cooking gadgets like a food processor, a toaster oven, a blender, and even an expensive stand mixer.

He had hardly ever touched them. 

Seto strutted toward the pantry, stopping when the tips of his toes touched the base of the door. But that was the extent of his confidence— he had no idea what he would find inside the pantry. Patting and feeling his way through the various assorted objects on the shelves was useless— he could only distinguish _tin, tin, bag, crinkly bag, big tin,_ but not the contents. 

“...We can order in.”

“It’s okay. I know how to cook.”

“Oh.”

“Besides, you have plenty of ingredients,” Atem continued. His footsteps drew closer, and Seto could feel him standing nearby. “We can find something to make together.”

Atem gently touched the small of his back and Seto became very aware of just how close the space was between them. Atem radiated warmth and the scent of a clean aftershave, and Seto turned toward him wistfully, leaning in without being aware of it, until the tip of his nose skimmed the tips of Atem’s hair— and he jerked back, embarrassed. 

“So—”

“We could easily make spaghetti with fresh tomato sauce, if you don’t mind a peasant’s meal.”

And then there was that laugh, bright and unaffected, that just made Seto’s heart pound a little faster than before. 

“What were you were going to say?”

“You beat me to it.”

It wasn’t long before the kitchen was warm from the salted boiling water on the stovetop, and aromatic with the savory scent of fresh basil and diced tomatoes. 

Seto waited by the counter and kept out of the way. He burned water, not that he would ever confess such a thing to Atem, and he was accident prone, even when he waited by the sidelines. 

When Atem handed him a spoon for tasting and instructed him to blow, Seto blew too hard and the sauce splattered over his face. He patted down the counter for a napkin, swallowing down a litany of curses, while Atem laughed and took his hand. 

“Here, allow me.” 

Atem’s warm, fragrant fingers closed around the jut of Seto’s chin, drawing his face lower. 

He smells like fresh basil, Seto thought, and he wrinkled his nose when Atem dabbed at the tip of his nose with a napkin. 

“I could have done that,” he muttered. He tried to speak without moving his mouth— he was overwhelmingly aware that Atem’s thumb rested just below the swell of his lower lip. 

It didn’t escape his notice that his touch lingered a moment longer, before he withdrew and cleared his throat. 

“What do you think?”

“Huh?” 

“About the sauce.” 

It was the last thing on Seto’s mind. But the taste of sweet herbs and fresh tomato and chili flakes lingered on his tongue and he nodded slowly, swallowing past the heart-shaped lump in his throat.

_“Great.”_

* * *

It dawned on Seto, as he was carefully choosing his outfit and brushing his hair before the weekly appointment, that he was becoming attached to Atem.

He was beginning to like Atem. 

He was beginning to develop feelings for Atem. 

He looked forward to his scheduled appointments with Atem, and he enjoyed spending time alone in his company. 

He had even become accustomed to the strange feeling of being equal parts nervous and excited around Atem— he felt that curious sensation welling up inside him every time that Atem laughed, every time Atem casually brushed his fingers against his back or against his hand, every time he so much as opened his mouth to speak. 

Seto couldn’t even begin to understand it, nor had he noticed when his somewhat begrudging respect for a colleague became something warmer, something hopeful and pleasant that bubbled up in his chest every time he was in Atem’s nearby vicinity. 

It had crept upon him at some point, without his knowledge. But now that he could see what was happening, he couldn’t believe how stupid he was. 

Seto sat at the edge of the bed and cupped his face in his hands. 

_Atem is only here by professional obligation,_ he reminded himself sternly. 

Atem would move on from him and start with a new client, once they completed their one-year contract. There were only four months left. 

Seto could make the most of it, pretend that these scheduled appointments were more than just strictly professional—

It would even be easy to believe. Atem’s presence was comfortable; his laughter came easily, and the occasional touch of their shoulders or Atem’s hand on his own, grazing knuckles, just the lightest touch, was enough to make Seto’s breathing stutter. 

Seto forced himself to stop thinking and buried his feelings. He refused to even entertain the thought— he would only hurt himself in the process, or worse yet, make a fool of himself if Atem were somehow to catch on to his feelings. 

He briefly considered rescheduling the appointment for another day, but it was only an hour until he was supposed to meet Atem— and a part of him couldn’t deny that he longed to spend time with him again. 

And again. 

And again.

* * *

Until they had a bad session. 

Kisara had missed one of her cues, and Seto collided into an unassuming waitress’ back. He knocked down her serving tray, sending the assortment of plates and cutlery to the floor with a loud crash that was impossible to ignore. 

There was a long beat of awful, deafening silence, before the talking resumed, this time in the form of muted murmurs. 

Seto couldn’t check his suspicions, but he could feel the judgmental stares. 

He was mortified. Even worse were the waitress’ stammered apologies and panicked questions—

_Sorry! A-Are you alright? I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you—!_

Seto had walked into her. It was his fault. She undoubtedly feared for her job, her very livelihood, but her apologies did nothing but fill him with the sickening reminder of his _condition_. It was so easy to forget that he wasn’t normal, but nobody would ever let him forget it long enough, _oh that poor man, he just couldn’t see—_

His chest seized with rage. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was having a heart attack. 

Seto stood fraught, torn between fury and humiliation, and the touch of Atem’s hand against his own, drawing him out of the upscale eatery, didn’t bring him any comfort. 

He slipped his hand out of Atem’s grasp.

The ride to Atem’s apartment was silent. The tension between them was palpable.

Seto sat rigidly in the passenger seat, fingers clenched into a fist in his lap, shoulders drawn taut. The mild sunshine was warm on his right cheek and the sounds and sensations of traffic —the frequent honks, the occasional shout, the reverberations of music from a loud bass player on the car one lane over— were all welcome distractions from the overwhelming silence between them. 

On any other occasion, he might have enjoyed the ride into Midtown, if his fingers weren’t clenched tightly enough for his nails to bite painful crescents into his palms or if there wasn’t the distinct pressure of angry, exhausted tears building behind his eyes. 

When they reached the apartment complex, Atem guided Seto up two flights of stairs, fourteen steps each, and welcomed him inside. 

Seto’s shoe caught on the raised threshold at the entrance. This time, Atem didn’t react quickly enough— Seto stumbled and clipped his shoulder on the door, hard enough for the door to swing back, hit the wall, and come back forward. 

“Kaiba!” 

Then Atem’s hand was on his elbow, drawing him away from the door. Seto registered a dull throb at his hip and realized that he must have also hit the doorknob, he was limping— 

“Are you alright?” 

It was that question again. 

An ugly feeling erupted in Seto’s chest. 

Atem’s hand was on his shoulder, he was checking him for injuries—

He had made a fool of himself again. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Despair welled up beneath the rage, confusing, churning in his stomach viscerally, until he felt he was going to be sick— was he going to live like this for the rest of his life? 

He wanted to scream. 

Seto tightened his mouth into a taut line and suppressed the angry wail that rose to the back of his throat. 

“I don’t want to be a part of the program anymore.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I’m done. Take her back and finish her training with someone else.”

“Wait—”

“I don’t care about the costs. I don’t need a refund. Find someone else who could use her.”

“It was one mistake, Kaiba, it could happen to—”

“Don’t!” Seto’s voice rose to a dangerous pitch; he was shouting. His voice rang hollow in his own ears. “Don’t try to _console_ me or tell me that it could happen to anyone!”

“I d—”

“You do this all the time!” 

Eight months of frustration spilled over. Anger poured out from somewhere between his ribs; fiery and aching in the hollow of his body. 

Seto fumed and raked his fingers through his hair, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, furious that he couldn’t even pace— he didn’t know the layout of the room. He was not only stupid, but useless, incompetent; he couldn’t see anything in front of him and he had already forgotten the placement of the door. He was trapped inside the room, trapped inside the confines of his own mind, incarcerated by the limitations of his own body. 

He was trapped. He couldn’t even run when Atem placed a gentle hand on his elbow. 

“I do _what_ all the time?”

“You pity me!” Seto shouted, curling his lip into an ugly snarl and shoving Atem’s hand away. “You and everyone else, you’re all the same!”

“I don’t—”

“You think I’m weak, I’m helpless—!” 

“ _Kaiba!_ ”

Atem had never shouted at him before. 

“I _don’t_ pity you, Kaiba,” he insisted, sounding frustrated. “I care about you! Why can’t you understand that?”

A hysterical laugh poured from Kaiba’s throat. “You don’t _care_ —”

“Don’t say that I don’t care!” Atem inhaled sharply. “I’m not taking pity on you. I _like_ you and I worry about you because I care about you, not because I think you can’t take care of yourself.”

Seto couldn’t think of another time in his life when he was so unsure of how to react. 

A heavy silence fell between them. Seto’s heartbeat sounded thunderous in the quiet apartment and he swallowed thickly, frowning, uncertain how to proceed and almost afraid to even open his mouth. 

Finally, after a long pause, he licked his lips and asked in a strangely defeated voice, “What?” 

Atem exhaled slowly and stepped closer. Seto didn’t move. His breath hitched in his throat and his heart raced— Atem stood close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from his body and the electric charge in the air. 

“I said I like you, Seto.” 

It was spoken quietly, even softer than before. 

Atem’s fingers brushed against the back of Seto’s hand, skimming his knuckles; Seto turned his palm up in invitation, not fully aware of what he was doing— but Atem took his hand, caressing the sensitive inside of his palm with his thumb and setting his nerves alight.

“Seto, I need to know...do you feel the same way?”

Atem would laugh at him if he knew how that offhanded sentence made his pulse race, Seto thought. Atem would laugh so hard, and he would be so embarrassed. It didn’t help that it was accompanied by such a tender touch; Atem’s thumb traced idle circles into the back of his hand and Seto could feel the weight of his gaze on his face. 

Was it a fond look? He couldn’t see the way that Atem was looking at him. But his touch, his touch was so tender— 

Seto swallowed tightly. He felt that strange burning pressure behind his lids, he felt like crying, and he didn’t know why, and it freaked him out.

“You like me.”

“Yes.”

The thought made Seto’s heart pound erratically before he could stop it. 

“I’m sorry if—“

“Don’t,” Seto interrupted. “You don’t have to apologize.” 

Atem’s laugh was breathless, exhilarated; just a touch nervous. “Sorry.” 

Warmth bubbled up inside his chest and it was so strong, so overwhelming, he felt almost buoyant with it. As much as he tried to fight it, Seto found a tentative smile drawing at the corners of his mouth. 

He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. I like you too. 

But when Atem’s fingers gently cupped the curve of his face, thumb sweeping once over the high point of his cheekbone, and he asked, “Can I kiss you?” Seto nodded hazily, caught in a dream, and felt warm lips press against his own.

* * *

Seto lay still in bed, unable to sleep. He could hear Atem’s smooth, even breathing beside him; Atem always slept curled up beside him, one arm draped heavily around his waist with comfortable familiarity. His breath tickled Seto’s bare shoulder with every warm exhale, and he felt him press a kiss to his exposed skin, so light, so gentle, he couldn’t be sure whether or not he had imagined it. 

“Are you awake?”

“Mmhmm.” 

The deep, sleepy rumble of Atem’s voice sent a lick of arousal coursing through Seto’s veins. His fingers crept lower, slipping under the soft cotton pajama bottoms, settling over the dip in his pelvis, thumb teasing over a sensitive spot that made Seto sigh and relax into his hands. 

“What’s the matter? You’re tense.” 

Seto traced the faint lines in Atem’s knuckles, the oval crescents of his fingernails, the palpable veins on the back of his hand. He appreciated the texture of Atem’s hands— his skin was warm, soft; digits perfectly shaped and nimble. 

He spent some time caressing the life lines in his palm, over and over again, until Atem’s fingers twitched and he turned his palm up, bringing their fingers together. 

Atem didn’t pressure him, but Seto could feel the weight of his curiosity. 

“Tell me what you look like.”

Atem’s fingers tensed, perhaps involuntarily. The request must have taken him by surprise. Seto squeezed their interlocked fingers in the same strangely placating way that Atem did for him so frequently. 

Seto licked his lips and tried to lighten the unexpected tension. “I know you’re short, you don’t have to tell me twice. But I don’t know what you look like.”

His voice came out flat and unconvincing. Atem winced and Seto wanted to disappear into the mattress.

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright. You’re not wrong.” Atem took a deep breath before starting, “My eyes are green—“

“Light or dark?” Seto demanded. 

Atem hesitated, and for one moment Seto berated himself for interrupting, but then his laugh came about, dry and amused. “Deep green. My mother is said to have screamed when she saw me for the first time.” 

Seto cracked a faint smile. “Go on.”

“My hair is three colors.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. My brother and I dyed it during our teenage rebellion in high school and it looked good. We kept it.” 

Seto touched Atem’s hair incredulously. It was suspiciously soft, he had always wondered about it— but he had never considered that it could be bleach-soft. 

“Go on. What colors?”

“Red, yellow, black.”

He must have made a face. Atem laughed. 

“It looks better than it sounds.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“My skin is...” Atem paused. “Brown. Warm, bronze. My father is Egyptian Arabic, my mother is Japanese. Yugi, my fraternal twin, takes after her. I take after my father.” 

Seto considered his words, then combed his fingers through the shorter strands of hair that framed Atem’s face, tucking a stray lock behind his ear. “Your impossible hair must suit you then.” 

A warm, low-timbered laugh reverberated in Atem’s chest. 

“I like to think it does.” 

“Let me touch your face.”

Without saying a word, Atem guided Seto’s hand to his face. 

Seto spread his fingers over the wide plane of Atem’s cheekbone. His skin was soft, almost velveteen and clean shaven; he could just barely feel the grain of his stubble, but he knew it was there, and he absently wondered how Atem must look in the evening with a five o’clock shadow. 

Handsome, he thought, trailing his index finger down the square angle of his jaw. He could feel the tension and the nearly imperceptible shift in Atem’s jaw as he swallowed, perhaps nervous— it was as intimate an experience for him as it was for Seto. 

He followed the softer slope of Atem’s chin, before touching his plump lower lip with his thumb. There was an unmistakable sharp intake of breath; Atem’s lips parted beneath his touch and his inaudible gasp warmed Seto’s cool fingers. 

Atem pursed his lips and kissed Seto’s thumb as it followed the dip of the cupid’s bow in his upper lip— it was surprisingly delicate, almost feminine, curiously at odds with the deep voice that emerged from them. 

The thought made Seto pause. “I want to kiss you.” 

Atem’s lips spread into a smile and Seto marveled at it. It was a wide crescent grin, and when he cupped the rest of Atem’s face with his other hand, he could feel the subtle indents in his cheeks. 

How cute, he thought, almost delirious with happiness when Atem kissed his thumb again, before sweeping his hands away and taking hold of Seto’s face, framing his face and drawing him down into a kiss. 

Kissing Atem was a purely sensual, tactile experience. Seto felt the warmth of his lips, the burning hot sensation of his hands wandering to his waist, untucking the hem of his shirt before sliding up his naked back, the dull chafe of stubble against his chin, stubble that had grown in since Atem’s morning shave. 

Seto parted from Atem’s lips and leaned into his hands with a contented sigh. Atem drummed his fingers on Seto’s back. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

“I like the stubble.”

* * *

A sense of touch was all he had, but it was enough to know that Atem had full, soft lips, a strong jaw, a straight nose with a rounded tip. He liked to remind himself often, caressing Atem’s face at every given opportunity, and Atem often helped fill in the details about his appearance that Seto couldn’t see for himself, so that he could piece together a fragmented image of him in his mind, filling in one detail at a time, like a puzzle— Atem wore black kohl around his eyes, the piercings in his ear were golden, and he was fond of black nail polish. 

Atem would guide his fingers along the tattoos on his arms and his torso, over and over again, until Seto learned the shapes of Egyptian motifs and the winged scarab on his chest by heart. 

_They’re colorful,_ Atem told him, _and they make me feel connected to my heritage._

Seto wistfully traced them over and over, wishing he could see their color against Atem’s skin. 

Whenever he closed his eyes at night, he dreamed of red, green, and gold swathes of color on honeyed brown skin.

* * *

Atem presses a kiss to the mark he’d made on Seto’s neck, at the juncture where it meets his jaw, high enough that the roll of his turtleneck won’t conceal it. Seto likes it when Atem marks him, likes to picture the faint pink bruises on his skin the next day and to trace over the sore spots with his fingers, warmed by the thought that someone cares for him.

He leans in, pausing a hair's breadth away from Atem’s lips. He hears the click of his swallow and kisses him, moving one hand into Atem’s hair. Atem allows himself to be kissed, allows Seto’s mouth move softly over his, and waits for the tentative touch of Seto’s tongue before he cups Seto’s face in one hand and draws him in close to kiss him hard. 

He kisses Seto breathless and then some, until Seto is unconsciously rolling his hips against Atem’s groin, seeking friction and drawing deep shudders from the man beneath him. There’s nothing but the feeling of Atem— the touch, his taste; the sound of his altered, heavy breathing and their lips parting and coming together desperately; the friction of hips and thighs and curious hands.

Seto’s hands drift from Atem’s hair to his face, stroking at the apples of his cheeks with his thumbs, before he moves them lower and encircles his neck with his arms. Atem’s body is a comforting weight bearing down on him, pressed chest to chest, hips to hips, delightfully warm, even through his pajamas. 

Heat rushes to his face and a molten desire floods through his veins, and when Atem’s lips move to press a kiss to the side of his mouth, a quiet whine escapes him before he could restrain it. Atem trails a line of kisses from Seto’s lips to the curve of his jaw. 

“Do you want to…?” he murmurs against his skin, the soft puffs of his breath tickling the sensitive spot beside Seto’s ear.

“I didn’t think you had to ask.”

“I like to hear you say it.” 

Seto can hear the smile in his voice, then stiffens when Atem slides a hand between their bodies and palms his erection through his clothing. 

“Although _this_ did give you away.”

“Shut up,” Seto growls, but all violent effect is stripped because his voice is raw, thick with desire, and his breathing is ragged.

He lifts his hips for Atem’s prying fingers, allowing him to pull down his pajama bottoms to his ankles, and kicks them off, freeing his legs. Then he starts to work on the buttons on his shirt and Atem’s hands join him, undoing the buttons from the bottom.

His knuckles occasionally graze over Seto’s abdomen, ticklish, and he shivers when his skin is exposed to the cool air. Atem’s warm hands immediately roam over his torso, following the lines of his sternum and tracing over each individual bump of his ribs. 

His touch is so light, so gentle, Seto would have once accused him of being overly cautious and treating him like fragile glass, ready to break at any touch. He knows better now— he knows that Atem touches him not with caution, but with reverence.

He’s still slick and stretched out from earlier that night, but Atem slinks lower and fingers him open, burying two fingers to the knuckle in the time it takes Seto to hitch a leg over his shoulder. His head tips back, hair splaying over the pillow and tugging at his scalp, and he inhales sharply through his nose, stuttering out a sigh.

“Don't you dare stop,” Seto chokes out, and makes a strangled noise when Atem crooks his fingers, thrusting them faster. 

Seto throws a hand over his face, overwhelmed, and bites his lip to keep in the breathy cries threatening to escape him.

“That's it,” Atem whispers, and then his fingers graze his prostate and –

“Fuck!” he cries, jerking his hips down with a sharp inhale and squeezing his legs together reflexively. “Atem!”

Atem pries his thighs apart and pins them down forcefully, exposing him. His hot mouth trails over the inside of Seto’s thigh, making him squirm and cry out even more loudly when Atem bites and sucks a faint bruise into his skin. 

His fingers nudge against his prostate again, then he’s teasing it with just the lightest touch, until Seto forces himself up onto his elbows and starts to threaten him.

“Stop teasing me, I swear I’ll kick you off the b—” 

Atem gives him a third finger and Seto cuts himself short with a thick moan. It stretches at his rim, a faint, familiar ache, a _good_ ache, and he pants, bearing down on Atem’s fingers, relaxing around him to take them in deeper. A fourth finger teases alongside the rest, brushing against his rim, but just when he thinks Atem’s going to stretch him wider than usual, Atem withdraws his fingers and trails his index down the faint pink line of his taint. 

“You’re ready,” he whispers, and Seto shudders when he presses a kiss to the inside of his knee. 

Seto pushes at Atem’s shoulders, moving forward when he recedes, and he wrestles Atem into the mattress. He moves slowly, cautious not to hurt Atem in the process, but he moves with the confidence acquired over the long evolution of their relationship. 

He trusts Atem, trusts the hands guiding his hips, now that Atem knows what he’s doing, and he knows where every movement will take him— he plants his knees on either side of Atem’s hips and bears down on his pelvis, shyly rutting against him. 

When Seto slowly sinks down on his cock, Atem squeezes his hips tightly between his hands, hard enough to bruise, and gasps. 

“If only you knew how good you look right now,” Atem groans, surging forward to kiss the jut of his larynx. “I wish you could see how beautiful you are.”

“I’d much rather see you.” 

“God, Seto…”

Atem’s wrecked moan sends a shudder of pride and arousal racing down Seto’s spine. _I made him sound like that_ , he thinks incoherently, and clenches around Atem. 

He could feel Atem's cock throbbing inside of him, a dull pulse between his legs, and _fucking christ_ , he’s enormous. It’s been nearly a year now since the first time they have done this, but he could never become fully accustomed to the raw stretch. 

Seto’s mouth hangs wide open, his hair falling over his brow, and he pants heavily, open-mouthed, gasping as he sways, rocking his hips forward in slow motions that make Atem groan beneath him. 

Atem tangles his fingers in his hair, raking his fingernails against his sensitive scalp, and Seto can feel the noisy moan reverberate in his throat. He tips his head back, exposing his throat, and Atem’s fingers curl, drawing pleasurable pressure at his scalp.

Atem starts thrusting up to meet his movements and Seto rolls his hips to meet him as best he could. It doesn’t take long for them to find a smooth, unyielding rhythm, and Seto gasps, planting his hands on Atem’s chest for balance, overwhelmed by the sensation of Atem deep inside him. 

Atem’s hand burns hot on his hip, the other on his ass, and he uses his grip as leverage to draw Seto against him. 

Seto sinks his teeth into his lower lip, trapping the moan in his throat, but he cries out every time Atem thrusts inside him. His own moans and cries are the only noises in the bedroom, drowning out the loud sound of skin slapping on skin. 

“Atem!” 

Atem’s hand abruptly leaves his ass and grabs his neglected cock— it only takes a few jerks for Seto to wail and cum, spilling between Atem’s fingers and dripping over his torso. He’s barely in the right mind to notice, too busy gasping for breath and trembling with pleasure, his entire body rigid with it.

Atem fucks him through it, not breaking his pace even once, until he finishes with a grunt, coming still and spilling inside Seto. 

Seto shudders, feels Atem buried so deep inside him that he imagines he could feel his cock pulsing inside. He gasps for breath and finally begins to relax, sinking down and meeting Atem chest to chest, laying on top of him, barely conscious enough to register the sensation of his own cum slicking between their torsos. 

He’s dragged out of his incoherent state by the brush of Atem’s lips on his clavicle. His lips trail softly over the slender column of his throat, his jaw, his chin, and then he’s kissing him, a slow, lingering press of his mouth that leaves Seto tingling from his head to his toes.

With a warm body beneath him and heavy hands on his waist, it’s all too easy to drift into sleep— but he fights his heavy eyelids, struggles against the warm lull of sleep. He wants to be awake and conscious, and he wants to enjoy the afterglow— and the feeling of Atem’s hands listlessly touching him, without rhyme or direction, touching for the simple sake of touching. 

He’s not even sure Atem knows that he’s doing it; his hands are merely trailing down the line of his back, ghosting over his sensitive skin, racking shivers. 

As much as he fights sleep, he drifts by the time that Atem carefully shifts him into a more comfortable position to hold him throughout the night.

* * *

Seto wakes up to Atem curled next to him, breathing slowly and sweetly into the hollow left between their bodies. It had been strange the first time, waking up half-buried into another person, but it was as familiar as it was comfortable now— like sleeping, wrapped in a personal comforter of his own.

 _How strange_ , he thinks, skimming his fingers fondly over Atem’s naked shoulder.

The dread and anxiety that had come with his first realization that he had a crush on Atem was gone now, replaced by something else that he could only think to describe as quiet contentment, happiness. 

Meeting Atem had been a curious reversal of fortune. Atem had filled a void in his life, the empty space left in the wake of an awful accident. 

It had been too soon, back then, to even dream that their relationship could become something special, long-lasting; he had always been cautiously pessimistic, well-aware that it would perhaps all amount to nothing in the end. 

Seto traces the silver band on his finger. Atem wears one in gold. 

It was funny how things turned out. 

"It's too early. Go back to sleep," Atem whispers, and it’s the mixture of appreciation and sleepy disdain that plucks at Seto's heartstrings. 

He spends that night in Atem's arms, just as he had spent every night the last four years, and he doesn't protest when Atem mumbles something unintelligible in the dark— Seto just buries himself deeper into his arms, pressing a smile into his chest, and sighs off into a comfortable slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> Kisara was the ring-bearer. 
> 
> I can't believe this took an entire month. Comments are always appreciated ❤
> 
> [tumblr fics](http://setokaibaes.tumblr.com/tagged/kaibae-writes)
> 
> [ko-fi](http://ko-fi.com/setokaibaes)


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